


Taken to the Tower

by A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin



Series: Will We Be Stuck Like This Forever? [7]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Tudor Court, M/M, Warning - Execution by Beheading, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin/pseuds/A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The court of Henry VIII is a dangerous place, even for those who have money, power and status. No one is safe from the threat of the scaffold, especially not those who play with fire by committing crimes in private and hoping to get away with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OctobersLily510](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctobersLily510/gifts).



> Okay, so I got a bit carried away with this oneshot so it's now a twoshot :)
> 
> OctobersLily510 prompted: "Tudor Times - Court of Henry VIII, one of the most dangerous courts of the 16th century, where homosexuality resulted in torture and death"
> 
> I think I could have written this with a little more danger involved, and I did sort of forego the torture as well but I hope this is still enjoyable.
> 
> I'll be posting the second part tomorrow :)

He’d missed England, he had to admit that, even if he’d never thought he ever would. France and its constant need to be ahead of everyone else in the newest fashions had tired him considerably, and now he was looking forward to just being swept along with whatever the rest of the English were doing and being content with it. And of course, he would be on his best behaviour; no more getting into trouble.

It was easier said than done really, trouble always seemed to follow him and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get rid of it. It had been the reason that his father had sent him to France in the first place, to try and sort him out, and now he was only being shipped home because it had apparently been decided that he had learnt his lesson.

Some of his father’s men were waiting for him in the port when he disembarked from the ship with his horse and a carriage for his belongings. They helped him load the bags and bundles before waiting for him to mount his own horse so that they could start on their journey along the Dover Road to London.

He knew that they were there simply to keep an eye on him and stop him getting into trouble if he decided to stop at any of the inns along the road and take a fancy to a barmaid. They needn’t have worried, those sorts of girls weren’t worth his time, and in fact, lately, there hadn’t been really any girls who _had_ been worth his time. Still, when he got to London, it might not be the same story.

But wait, he was supposed to be staying out of trouble, and that usually meant staying out of other people’s beds, or keeping them out of his, as well.

He could have ridden to London faster on his own, having his luggage sent on after him on the next coach through, but instead he was being forced to ride slowly with this watchful guard so that they could stop overnight in Canterbury. Unnecessary really when he could have been in London by nightfall alone.

Unless, of course, he’d run into any thieves or brigands on the way, the Dover Road was infamous for them, but they’d have been sorely disappointed to learn that he was most definitely more than a match for them. He’d never been particularly good in a fair fight, he was always much better if the weapons were words, but he made sure to keep a number of knives tucked away on his person when travelling, and the sword hanging from his belt was usually a reasonably good deterrent.

“Do you think they’ve missed me, Roberts?” he asked the captain of his father’s guard, who regarded him with a dry look before answering.

“I think your father hopes that your stay in France will have taught you a few lessons, sir,” Roberts replied. “He wants to see you as soon as you get back, and then you’ll be expected to rejoin the court immediately. You’re expected not to make too much of a fuss and just to slip back in as though you’d never left. It’s no good drawing attention to yourself.”

Oh yes, his father most definitely did not want his embarrassing little failure arriving back with a good deal of celebration. Well, he didn’t mind that so much.

What he did mind, however, was being summoned straight to his father’s chambers before he’d so much as set foot in his own rooms, fortunately the same ones as he’d had before he’d been to France. At least he wouldn’t have to learn a new route back to them, and they were still far enough away from his father that he would be left relatively undisturbed. After this first meeting, of course.

“Couldn’t you have at least let me change out of my riding clothes?” was the first thing he said as soon as his father bade him enter his study. “I smell like horse and it’s unpleasant.”

“And let you loose on the court before I’d spoken to you?” his father raised an eyebrow at his son’s lack of manners, “I don’t think so, Anders. Maybe you should take a seat.”

“I’d rather stand,” Anders replied, “I can leave quicker that way.”

His father’s brow furrowed.

“Anders, one day you’ll inherit the family estate, the family name, the title,” he said, “Maybe you’d like to start acting like the son I raised you to be. I want you to settle down one day, soon hopefully, with a respectable wife, and have a family so that you can carry on our line, but how am I supposed to find you a woman whose father will agree to a marriage when you’re sneaking off with every serving girl who mistakenly glances your way?”

Anders resisted the urge to laugh in his father’s face. He knew his fate when it came to his future, that more than likely Fate had already decided when his time would be up and it was probably before he could marry and start a family. In fact, Fate was hardly likely to let him actually find a wife in the first place.

Yes, he’d slept around. Yes, it was reasonably entertaining. But it was more out of boredom and loneliness than anything else, and recently, he hadn’t even found the energy to chase any girl at all.

And then there was the part of his escapades that his father would never find out about, the part where the serving boys had been just as willing as the girls. But that secret must never ever come to light, otherwise he’d face a fate worse than exile across the Channel.

“You may go, Anders,” his father’s voice brought him back to the present. “But if I hear that you’ve been so much as glancing at anybody in an untoward way or causing trouble, I won’t hesitate to send you home to your mother.”

“Don’t worry,” Anders rolled his eyes, “You can tell your friends that they don’t need to lock up their wives and daughters, they’re all perfectly safe from me. Though do give Mother my kind regards, I’m sure the lack of letters for the entire year that I was in France were not a sign of any hard feelings.”

He left the room swiftly and headed straight back to his own chambers, where he found that his manservant had already been in and put away his belongings from his travels. The bed had also been freshly made and he wasted no time in throwing himself down upon it and closing his eyes. He deserved a well-earned rest, he thought.

However, clearly someone else had other ideas, for there was suddenly a sharp knock on the door, followed by silence. There was no call or shout of his name when he ignored it for a few moments, just a repeated knock; clearly a servant that he was not familiar with.

“Come in!” he called out, opening one eye lazily as a rather timid looking maidservant peered nervously around the door. Ah, clearly his reputation had preceded his return. “No need to look so scared,” he said. “I’d rather be sleeping than talking, so please just say what you’ve been sent to say and then you can go.”

“Your presence is required at a costume fitting for the masque tonight,” the girl managed to stutter out, “Immediately.”

Anders opened both eyes at this news.

“A costume fitting for a masque?” he asked, “Now why would I be involved in that?”

The girl’s eyes widened, caught off guard by another question.

“I was only sent to fetch you for the costume fitting, my lord,” she replied, “The king chose the gentlemen involved personally.”

And without waiting for a proper dismissal, she fled, leaving the door to close behind her.

Anders groaned and sank back into his pillow.

* * *

The masque was something typical, nothing particularly elaborate, in which the gentlemen were required to simply pretend that they were rescuing a number of the ladies of the court from the makeshift tower that had been set in the middle of the Great Hall. Of course, they let the king choose which lady he wished to dance with first, and although they were all masked, it was simple enough to tell which one was the king and which lady he had chosen.

Anders had been back at court for less than a day and already he had heard how the king was supposedly infatuated with this Boleyn girl. He wasn’t usually one for morals, but he couldn’t help the twinge of sympathy when he looked across at the queen, who sat watching her husband dance with another woman, her smile strained.

He did, however, nearly laugh aloud when he realised that his father was probably watching him carefully as he danced with the lady-in-waiting that he’d been paired with for the performance. His father had nothing to worry about, the woman repeatedly stepped on his toes, and while he wasn’t the most accomplished dancer himself, he couldn’t help but think that if she didn’t stop soon he was going to swear at her very loudly; preferably in the French he’d learnt because somehow that made everything sound much less impolite.

But the thing about masques was that since he’d only been there for the dress rehearsal that afternoon, barely an hour before the feast, he really had no idea who the other courtiers he’d been dancing with were, so when they pulled their masks off at the end, it was a surprise to see some of their faces again.

And then there was one that he did not recognise. Or at least, he recognised him immediately, but he’d never seen him in this particular setting before. His heart jumped in his chest and he quickly made his way across the floor to where the other man was standing.

“I’d forgotten what it is like to watch you dance,” he said with a grin, watching as the other man turned to look at him in surprise, but before he could say anything in reply, one of the other courtiers had come bounding up, throwing an arm around both their shoulders.

“Ah, Anders, I see that you’ve met our newest addition,” he said cheerfully, “This is John Mitchell, he’s been sorting out his family estate for the past few years and now he’s finally at court. John, this is Anders Johnson, he’s been in France for the past year.”

The man clapped them both on the shoulders and then moved away.

“So, France for a year?” Mitchell raised an eyebrow, “What’s that all about?”

Anders grimaced.

“Me,” he said, “And the fact that I’m the family embarrassment. I’ll tell you more tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight. When we’re alone. In my rooms.”

Mitchell’s eyes went wide at that and he glanced around nervously to check that there was no one else nearby, but fortunately everyone else seemed to be occupied by other distractions.

“Someone might see us,” he hissed, “They might see me entering your rooms at night, think of the implications, Anders.”

“Nonsense,” Anders waved his concerns away, “You’ve always been pretty good at getting places unnoticed, you’ll be fine. My rooms are rarely frequented by any servants, my father has made sure that they all stay away, and there are no other courtiers who have rooms particularly nearby. You won’t be seen, John.”

Mitchell sighed.

“Alright, where exactly is your room?” he asked.

Anders grinned widely and told him quickly before moving away, back towards his place at one of the tables while the other courtiers began to dance, the musicians picking up a lively tune. He chanced a glance at his father, who just looked mildly sour, but since that had recently become his normal expression, he was pretty sure he was safe.

Life had just become a whole lot more exciting.

And he definitely wouldn’t be sparing the serving girls even a single look.

* * *

He left the feast at an acceptable time, claiming loudly that he was tired after his journey and that he needed to rest. Mitchell watched him as he got to his feet, nodding slightly in acknowledgement when the other gave him a warning look, telling him not to follow too soon or risk suspicion.

Mitchell leant back casually in his seat. He would leave once a few more courtiers had also retired.

He didn’t even have to wait that long, for it seemed that a fair proportion of the court had also decided to have an early night, though of course there would always be some who would still be drinking into the early hours of the next morning. A couple of the other gentlemen around him asked him to stay a little longer with them, but he turned their offer down gently, claiming his exhaustion to be due to the fact that it was his first court feast.

He slipped silently along the passages to Anders’ room without being seen, the blond hadn’t been lying when he’d said that hardly anyone went that way, and knocked quickly on the door.

Anders answered almost immediately, ushering him inside hurriedly and then locking the door behind him.

“No one will disturb us now,” he said, “I’ve told my manservant not to bother coming in here tomorrow morning. I’m clearly very tired from my journey and so I will be sleeping late, and it’s warm enough not to need the fire to be lit before dawn.”

Mitchell smiled in return and cast his eyes around the blond’s set of rooms. They were not so different from his, with the same panelled wood walls and similar rugs on the floors. The layout was also the same, but Anders’ was much richer somehow, clearly whoever had furnished the room had decided to show off their wealth with multiple tapestries and a painting or two; Mitchell even caught sight of the bed, covered in embroidered coverlets and several warm quilts lay on a chair beside it.

“Are you planning for a game?” he asked, suddenly noticing the half dealt pack of playing cards on the table with two chairs drawn up either side. “I didn’t really get that impression before.”

“Of course not,” Anders replied, “That’s merely a precaution. If anyone sees you or has seen you, then our story is that I’ve invited you over, as the newest member of this court, to play cards with me. And you, as the newest member, foolishly took up my offer and we managed to get spectacularly drunk and fall asleep at the table in the middle of a game.”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

“And why would accepting your offer be foolish?”

“Ah, well, you don’t know my reputation around here,” Anders said, “And therefore you do not know that most people avoid me like the plague itself. I corrupt people, apparently. Wives, who have always been faithful, are suddenly the subject of the latest court rumour; and girls who have never so much as looked at a man before are suddenly not quite so innocent.”

“So I’m not the first person that you’ve coerced back to your rooms then?” Mitchell’s eyebrow managed to rise even higher.

“No,” Anders replied, “But you’re the first person that I’ve actually wanted to be here.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I actually want you and the rest of them were simply a way to stave off the boredom.”

“The boredom?”

“Yes, the boredom. You took your time turning up, you know.”

“I had family business to attend to,” Mitchell defended himself, suddenly noticing just how close to him the blond had got, their chests were almost touching and he would only have to reach out to pull the other man completely against him.

But Anders got there first, pulling him down for a fierce kiss with one hand at the back of his head while his other hand fumbled with the ties on his doublet. Somehow, with a great deal of struggling with knots which really were rather inconvenient, they managed to stumble their way to Anders’ bed.

“I take it that I now know why you were in France,” Mitchell said as they parted for several seconds so that Anders could throw both their shirts somewhere on the floor.

The blond actually growled at that.

“John, shut up,” he said, “I don’t want to think about France right now, and I definitely hope that you’re don’t either.”

* * *

By the time that they awoke the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky and it was likely to be nearer to lunch than to breakfast. They were both tangled in the sheets, Anders having gotten too warm and attempted to kick them off, while Mitchell tried to wrap himself up in them.

“Are you actually going to talk to me about France?” the brunet asked as he tucked his head over the blond’s shoulder comfortably.

“I thought you said last night that you knew why I went to France,” the blond frowned.

“I do, but I want to hear exactly why,” Mitchell said, “I want to know about your family. I would tell you about mine but, well, there’s not much to say. My mother died giving birth to me and my father died in a hunting accident a year ago. That’s why I had to stay behind and sort out the estate for a bit. So, what about you?”

Anders made a whining noise and buried his face in his pillow.

“I don’t want to talk about my family,” he said, sounding rather like a petulant child. “My father thinks I’m a disgrace and my mother hates me because I wasn’t the one who died in the sweating sickness two years ago. My older brother died instead and now both my parents have no idea how to cope with an heir who doesn’t want to act like an heir.”

Mitchell tightened his grip around the other man’s waist.

“They can’t hate you for not dying,” he said, “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” Anders shrugged, “My mother wishes that I’d died instead. I haven’t spoken to her since it happened; she’s not even sent me a single letter. My father thinks that exile has taught me a lesson and I’ve promised him that there’ll be no more sleeping around this time.”

“That’s gone well,” Mitchell commented.

“I’m only going to be sleeping with you,” the blond retorted, “And it’s not like my father is ever going to find that out.”

“I know, no one can ever find out.”

“Apparently what we’re doing is a sin,” Anders rolled onto his back, forcing Mitchell to readjust himself around him. “Tell me, if it’s a sin then why does Fate force us together every time? It’s not like we have any choice and decide that we want to be sinners. It’s not fair.”

“They don’t understand,” Mitchell said, “No one will ever understand about us. What we’re doing Anders, it’s dangerous, but it’s so natural for us that we don’t even notice. We’re going to have to be especially careful, especially here, in the middle of a court rife with spies. The king has his spies, every nobleman has his own spies. One wrong move and they’ll snap us right up.”

“I almost wish that we’d been born as peasants, in the middle of a village somewhere. But even there they’d seek us out and string us up for just being us. Nowhere is safe, John, and that scares me.”

“It scares me too, Anders,” Mitchell admitted, “But the fear will stop us becoming careless, it’ll force us to measure up any risk that we have to take.”

“I won’t give you up though,” the blond declared suddenly, “I know about the dangers but I wouldn’t for one minute let you go just so that we could live safely.”

“Of course not,” Mitchell said solemnly, “Fate wouldn’t let us anyway.”


	2. The Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second half of this twoshot - I hope you all enjoy!

They managed to conceal their relationship for a nearly six months, always sneaking into each other’s rooms unseen and leaving them again without detection in the morning.

Anders’ father was somewhat pleased, or as pleased as he ever was with his son, that there seemed to be no more rumours flying around involving their family and any unscrupulous business. And that meant that he left his son alone more, no longer constantly summoning him to his rooms so that he could berate him for his behaviour.

But then suddenly, one afternoon as Anders was dozing lightly, waiting for Mitchell to finish with some papers which needed to be signed for his family estate, there was a loud banging on his door. He was startled awake immediately, for there was no way that a servant would knock so violently, and Mitchell had long since abandoned knocking at all.

He sat up swiftly, frowning in confusion at the door before calling out for whoever it was to enter. They did so almost as soon as the words left his mouth, throwing the door open forcefully and letting it slam against the wall.

“Anders Johnson, I have a warrant for your arrest,” the first soldier said, “You’re to come with us by order of the king.”

He had no time to gather together any belongings, to see anyone, before he found himself being forced onto a boat heading straight across the Thames to Traitors’ Gate and the Tower of London. The soldiers sat blank-faced as the oarsmen rowed steadily in the growing darkness. Anders had not realised how late he had been waiting for Mitchell to show up, and now it was nearly nightfall.

He demanded to know exactly why he had been arrested; what his crimes were. But he was merely informed that his manservant would be bringing fresh linen in the morning, and until then, he would be making himself comfortable in the rooms that had been afforded to him by the Constable of the Tower.

Of course, his family’s status had bought him the means to acquire a room not that different in size to his rooms at court, this room was just much barer. He knew that he could pay for furnishings if he wanted to do so, but this was most likely Fate’s way of sending him a fatal message, and he wasn’t about to waste money on amenities that would not be used for very long.

He wondered where Mitchell was at that moment, what he was thinking and feeling. As much as he might have feigned confusion and anger at his arrest, he was almost certain that he could guess which crimes had been cited against him, and if he was right, then there was no doubt that the soldiers had come for Mitchell too.

Crossing the room to the window which overlooked the courtyard, he quickly glanced around at the other towers in sight in the hope that he could catch a glimpse of the other man, but his efforts were in vain. He had no idea which tower they would have taken him to, and he was not even certain that he knew which tower _he_ was being held in.

* * *

His manservant arrived the next morning, depositing the fresh clothing and then withdrawing hurriedly, leaving him alone again with just his thoughts.

His next visitor was the Gentlemen Gaoler of the Tower who came to inform him that his trial would be taking place that morning, and if he would come immediately then there would be no point delaying it.

And so he followed without question, he knew better than to cause a fuss where there was no chance that a fuss could change Fate’s plan for him. They did not call upon him once throughout the entire proceedings; it seemed that they did not even want to ask him for a statement.

The sentence they gave him had been decided before he’d even set foot in the room.

“Anders Johnson, you will be executed at ten o’clock in the morning in two days time for the crimes you have committed on the orders of His Majesty, the King of England. His Majesty has been lenient in ordering that you be beheaded on Tower Hill instead of being burnt at the stake.”

The blond’s crimes were then repeated for the benefit of the rest of the people present at the trial although Anders tuned the droning voice out. Somehow someone had discovered his relationship with Mitchell, someone said that they had seen them together. Letters had been produced which were supposedly written by him and addressed to the brunet even though Anders knew that neither of them were exactly the type to send each other love notes.

His one regret was that he would probably never know who.

Not that it truly mattered, Fate had played her hand and she had won. He had to resign himself to what was to happen for the sooner that this was over with, the sooner that they could start again. Of course, he would have liked to have seen Mitchell one last time, but short of attempting to escape and find the other man himself, no one was likely to grant his request. And even if he did manage to escape his rooms, the Tower was built specifically so that to reach the other towers you had to cross the courtyard, and anyone in the courtyard could be seen by the Warders at their posts.

Instead he requested that he be brought the means to write a last letter to his father. Not that his father would be receiving a letter exactly from him, just a small memento, for as soon as he received the paper he sat down in front of the window and immediately began sketching an outline.

Less than an hour later, Mitchell’s face stared back at him from the page.

* * *

Across the courtyard, Mitchell was being held in a similar room to Anders, although his family’s lower social status had not afforded him as many luxuries. He had not even had a trial, the evidence against him was the same as that against the blond and therefore they had felt no need to try both of them; the Lieutenant of the Tower had simply brought him the news of his sentence.

He’d spent several hours that afternoon just lying on the bed in the corner of the room and trying to reconcile himself to the fact that he would most likely never see Anders again in this life, and if he did, then it would be little more than a glance before they dragged him off to Tower Hill.

He was still lying in the same position when there was a knock on his door and a voice announcing that he had a visitor. He looked up in surprise as the bolts were drawn back and the Warder outside ushered in a well-dressed man that he only vaguely recognised.

He had barely any time to react before he realised who was stood before him.

This was Anders’ father, the man he had been trying to avoid for several months. Anders had never introduced them and so he’d only ever seen him around the court at special events and occasions.

And he had never seen him so angry. He’d heard about the other man’s rages, from Anders, but he’d never witnessed him doing more than glaring intently at the food which was placed in front of him at feasts.

“My lord,” he started, standing up and trying to greet the man politely, feeling that it was the only thing he could do at that moment, only for Anders’ father to stride quickly towards him and force him backwards, almost against the wall.

“You don’t even deserve to speak to me,” the man said, his voice unnervingly even and calm, “I don’t even want to be within a hundred yards of you, but I wanted you to know that you’ve ruined my family; corrupted my son. He was getting better, his exile to France had actually made him take responsibility for all the mistakes he’d made, but then you came along and you undid everything I’d done to make him accept his position in our family. You deserve worse than just a beheading, you’re a sinner and no penance would ever cleanse you of that. You’re a disgrace to your own family, and I hope they know that.”

Something snapped inside Mitchell at that moment, tipping him straight over the edge.

“I don’t have any family,” he retorted sharply, “My estate and the family title will go to a distant cousin of mine that I’ve never met. I have no one but Anders, and if you think that coming here now and telling me that I’ve sinned and that I’ve corrupted your son is going to make me beg for your forgiveness, then you’re wrong. I love your son, I always will, and what’s the point of keeping that a secret now? My neck’s already on the block, they can’t do much else to me. But nothing you could have done would have kept us apart, there’re greater forces than you at work here; you could have sent us to opposite corners of the Earth and we still would have found each other.”

Anders’ father’s face turned several shades of red before settling on a purple-y colour.

“How dare you!” he cried, “How dare you suggest that God made you the way you are!”

Mitchell couldn’t stop the chuckle which escaped him at that moment.

“I didn’t mean God,” he said, “I meant Fate, though the Romans thought she was a goddess, so I suppose that you weren’t that wrong.”

Anders’ father’s face purpled even more, his words stuttering as he tried to form sentences in his rage. Fortunately at that moment, one of the guards from outside came in to take him back into the corridor and Mitchell was once again left alone.

He could hear the curses being directed towards him on the other side of the door before they were lost in the stone walls.

He lay back on his bed and laughed quietly to himself for no reason at all.

* * *

The morning of the execution came around all too soon, and Anders found himself being woken by his manservant, who had already laid out all of his clothes for the occasion and brought in a bowl of water and a cloth with which he could wash.

Once he was ready, he quickly folded up the paper containing his last few drawings and addressed them to his father, before handing them over to his manservant, making him promise to deliver them immediately. Anders considered that it was almost a shame that he would not be there to witness his father’s reaction.

“You’re to come with me,” the soldier by the door startled the blond a little, having not even noticed when the other man had entered.

“But it’s not even nine yet,” Anders frowned, “Surely they will not take me to the scaffold this early?”

“You’re not going to the scaffold,” the soldier said, “Not yet, anyway.”

“Then where are you taking me?”

But the soldier would not give him an answer.

Instead, they marched down to the end of the corridor where one of the windows overlooked Mint Street. It had a clear view of the pathway to the gatehouse and drawbridge, over which would lead to Tower Hill, just out of sight in the distance, and suddenly Anders was struck with an awful sense of foreboding.

He was just about to turn around and demand to know what was going on when movement from around the corner of one of the towers in his line of vision caught his eye. Several guards emerged first, followed by a horribly familiar figure, and that’s when he realised that they had brought him there so that he could watch.

Mitchell had his head bowed as he was shepherded down to the intersection of Water Lane and Mint Street towards the gatehouse. At one point he lifted his head to cast his gaze across the Tower for the last time, his eyes locking with Anders’ as he caught sight of him.

The blond’s breath hitched as the other man mouthed something at him but the distance was too great and it was not clear what he was trying to say.

All too soon, he had disappeared out of sight across the drawbridge and Anders collapsed against the window, his forehead resting on the glass while the rest of his body shook in anticipation of his fate.

“May I return to my room to wait until I must leave?” he asked the soldier, but the man merely shook his head.

“You must stay here,” he was told.

He stood at the window for another fifteen minutes, his hands twitching restlessly at his sides as the seconds slowly ticked by.

“This is ridiculous,” he opened his mouth to say but the words died in his throat as suddenly a man wheeling a cart came back into view from the gatehouse, flanked by several of the guards. “No,” the word was barely a defeated whisper as once again he collapsed against the glass, his hands pressed up on the panes and his eyes wide and desperate.

The body in the card was covered with a thin cloth while the head was wrapped next to it.

There was no mistaking who it was.

A strangled cry escaped Anders’ lips as his legs gave way and he slumped against the wall for support, his eyes still fixed on the cart as it hurried out of sight towards one of the other towers.

He’d seen Mitchell die before, he knew that Mitchell had seen him die before, but the fact that someone had forcibly removed the other man’s head from his body made his stomach churn. The sight of the headless torso had been positively ghoulish and the very thought that someone had so completely damaged Mitchell seemed worse than every other method by which his life had been ended.

His mind was still spinning in shock when the soldiers finally took him away from the window and out into the courtyard. They walked to Tower Hill where the scaffold had been built in silence, just the regular thud of their boots over the cobbles echoing in the blond’s ears.

Why had they not left Mitchell’s body at the scaffold? Put it into the waiting coffins and covered it to transport the two of them back to the Tower once the whole ordeal was over?

And then, as he was climbing the wooden steps to the jeering of the crowd, he knew.

They did it because they had wanted him to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're confused about some of the places mentioned within the Tower of London then I'd recommend looking up a labelled map because otherwise some of it will make no sense at all - even though Anders says that he has no idea which tower he's in and which tower Mitchell is in, I've envisaged Anders being held in the Beauchamp Tower and Mitchell being in the Bell Tower. I've tried to make the setting as realistic as possible because I'm sure that the side of the Bell Tower is visible from the windows in the Beauchamp Tower which face Mint Street but the entrance is hidden on the Inner Ward side.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, still taking prompts for this verse :)


End file.
